As he sat at his supper, his eyes followed constantly the movements of the girl, who was busied about him in the duties of the household.  It were not easy to say with what passion or sentiment his heart was struggling with respect to her.  He saw her as a hope gone from him, a joy not to be grasped, a possible fulfilment of that part of his nature which was never to be fulfilled.  And she?  Was she conscious of any sentiment peculiar to herself respecting this brave rude man, whose heart was tender enough to be drawn towards her and yet strong enough to be held apart at the awful bidding of an iron fate?  Perhaps not.  She in turn felt drawn towards him; she knew the force of a feeling that made him a centre of her thoughts, a point round which her deeper emotions insensibly radiated.  But this was associated in her mind with no idea of love.  If affection touched her at all, perhaps at this moment it went out where her pity—­rather, her pride—­first found play.  Perhaps Ralph seemed too high above her to inspire her love.  His brother’s weaker, more womanly nature came closer within her range.

There was now a long silence between them.

“Rotha,” said Ralph at length, “this will be my last night at the Moss; the last for a long time, at least—­I didn’t expect to be here to-night.  Can you promise one thing, my girl?  It won’t be hard for you now—­not very hard now.”  He paused.

“What is it, Ralph?” said Rotha, in a voice of apprehension.

“Only that you won’t leave the old house while my mother lives.”

Rotha dropped her head.  She thought of the lonely cottage at Fornside, and of him who should live there.  Ralph divined the thought that was written in her face.

“Get him to come here if you can,” he said.  “He could help Willy with the farm.”

“He would not come,” she said.  “I’m afraid he would not.”

“Then neither will he return to Fornside.  Promise me that while she lives—­it can’t be long, Rotha, it may be but too short—­promise me that you’ll make this house your home.”

“My first duty is to him,” said Rotha with her hand to her eyes.

“True—­that’s true,” said Ralph; and the sense that two homes were made desolate silenced him with something that stole upon him like stifling shame.  There was only one way out of the difficulty, and that was to make two homes one.  If she loved his brother, as he knew that his brother loved her, then—­

“Rotha,” said Ralph, with a perceptible tremulousness of voice,” I will ask you another question, and, perhaps—­who knows rightly?—­perhaps it is harder for me to ask than for you to answer; but you will answer me—­will you not?—­for I ask you solemnly and with the light of Heaven on my words—­on the most earnest words, I think, that ever came out of my heart.”

He paused again.  Rotha sat on the end of the settle, and with fingers intertwined, with eyelids quivering and lips trembling, she gazed in silence into the fire.